Walls
by Sunruner
Summary: There was just something about digging Heracles' grave with Italy next to him that made all the hypothesizing and pondering feel like a terrible, tasteless joke. SOMEDAY A HAPPY FIC. SOMEDAY. Gutters Spin-off. Hetalia AU?
1. One of Three

**STOP.**

**STOP.**

**I SAID STOP.**

**What you are about to read is a spin-off of Glassamilk's soul-destroying fic Gutters, written with the author's knowledge and subject to anything at all that Glassamilk has said or will say or intends to say about the characters involved. I don't reiterate much of anything from the original because that was what Gutters itself was for, so no Peter and Denmark. Instead, as you'll see this story focuses primarily on life in the new American colony, so , yeah, fanfic of a fanfic.**

**If you haven't read Gutters, _GO READ GUTTERS._**

**One of these days I will write a happy Hetalia fic...**

* * *

_**Walls**_

Part One of Three

Greece only asked Ivan one question after everything was explained, which came just after everyone was loaded onto the submarine and they left the toxic grey world behind.

"The far east, did... did Japan...?"

"I'm sorry, he didn't make it."

Greece had developed the terrible cough and milky eyes that came from breathing in too much of the ash on the surface, but considering how terrible conditions were up there, Ivan was pleased to find him breathing at all. Greece had tall mountains, and money had not been an issue during the scramble to build shelters and drill bunkers: most of his original islands were gone, but there were plenty of new ones housing his isolated people.

Food was an issue, but food had always been an issue for Greece, much like it was now for Russia. The hope was that if his people had survived for so long after enduring two flashes then they would make it until Ivan could return for another load of refugees. Greece didn't even try to ask him what had happened to Japan, he just settled down next to Spain with a vacant expression on his scarred face, blankets wrapped around his weak and withered body.

Just before he turned to leave the compartment reserved for people like them, Ivan stopped and looked at Spain again. The brunette had been quiet since they'd climbed on board, probably because he had required help climbing down into the dark, cramped interior of the submarine. Seeing him without his right leg sticking out of the heavy jacket he'd been given was something of a shock to Ivan. The amputation it shouldn't have been noteworthy after so much carnage, but there it was: a nation without his leg. Without thinking, the Russian reached up and touched the cruel rip that had torn across his own face in the chaos of Apocalypse, and felt kinship, if only a little.

So he asked:

"How long ago did you see Denmark?" The question, he knew, came eerily close to _'How long ago did South Italy die?'_ but Ivan didn't want to bring that up, he wanted information. "Do you know how he wound up in Messina?" Spain's green eyes were only half-open and Ivan was surprised at his own patience, watching the Spaniard look from side to side in the cramped space without actually turning his head, how he was so careful to avoid looking at the fourth nation seated across from him.

"He said it just happened in the chaos, you know?" Spain finally answered, "It was several weeks ago. I can hardly remember." No, he simply didn't _want_ to remember, but Ivan was okay with that. He couldn't chase Denmark across land anyways, nor did he really want to when there were more important tasks to complete. The Dane would look after himself, in the meantime Ivan nodded, directed their attention to the first aid kit in the back, and then left.

The submarine was already filled to capacity, probably even a bit over capacity as Ivan's heavy boots clanked across the metal floor and he let himself through a number of tight doorways. His crew knew what they were doing and didn't require his constant attention, but he was headed for the bridge just the same when he heard another pair of footsteps following through the maze of sick rooms and flickering lights.

Like Greece, when Ivan stopped walking Italy only had one thing to say:

"There must be something I can do." Do? Ivan turned around in the cramped, humming hallway where the other nation had followed him, looking down at the smaller man with a frown.

"You can settle your people for the voyage. We will be down here for a long time." It was very, very hard not to look away from the sight in front of him.

There had been a time, several centuries in fact, where Ivan had envied Italy for being such a warm, sunny little nation. But the feeling had long since passed. South Italy had begun to dry up in the months leading up to the Calamity, nevermind the event itself, and North Italy's face was a very pungent reminder of their harsh fate.

At some point in the last few years, Italy's entire face had been completely burnt, and anything less than a careful review of his face was enough to make you completely forget who it was you were supposed to be looking at. His eyebrows were gone and his hairline was jagged and uneven. The smooth olive skin had been replaced with ruddy, rubber-like scales and scars, the contours of his face were preserved, but even his lips had blistered and peeled to the point where only their shape really remained. Feliciano had been a very beautiful man once, but now with the firm, dark look that had overtaken his eyes, and the way they were framed by the trauma lacquered over his cheeks and nose, he just looked terrible.

Ivan had been in their company for two days, and he had not seen Italy smile once.

"Russia, please." His voice, at least, did not sound so different, but Ivan really hadn't had a chance to hear him say more than a few words. This was a surprise.

"What do you want me to do, Italy?" Really, what was he looking for?

"I want you to put me to work."

"Work?" Ivan repeated, not sure he'd heard the Italian right. "We have no chefs or kitchens on this vessel, everyone lives off rations." Italy was already shaking his head, lifting his burnt hands up for emphasis.

"There must be something I can do with these. Cleaning, or oiling, or-"

"You want _manual_ work?" This did not sound like the Italy Ivan remembered but, really, no one was the same anymore. It was his own fault if Ivan kept trying to tag the wrong identity to this new person. "I'm not sure." He shook his head, quickly cutting Italy off with, "you're extremely underweight, I don't know if you could handle-"

But two could play at cutting off.

"For God's sake, Braginski, I survived the Apocalypse!" Force, wit and anger. And he called it Apocalypse, not Rapture, a change which made Ivan pause for a moment. Italy had been one of the few nations to cling to the biblical term while elsewhere people converted to the scientific "Calamity", which made perfect sense considering how close he was to- oh.

_Oh_.

"Alright. Follow me." Ivan said, but he didn't go anywhere. He just watched Italy stand patiently in front of him- or was he impatient? Ivan couldn't tell anymore. "But are you sure you wouldn't rather sit with-?"

"Lets go." Hmph.

So they went.

* * *

Matthew saw the submarine first because he was captivated by the sight of the morning sun. He was simply in awe of it, the clean, yellow light reflecting off the horizon. The longer he stood there, the more he could pretend that the sick smell of the ocean breeze wasn't really so strong. Maybe the water was only grey in contrast with the sun. Maybe the plastic buckets and rope and tin cans and everything else they were collecting for use was just part of a save-the-oceans clean-up effort, not life or death salvaging for reusable items back at camp. Maybe. Just maybe.

It wasn't his fault for feeling so sentimental. The last time he or anyone else had seen the sun had been one of two ways: in the minutes just before the bunkers had sealed them inside, or just after the doors had locked them out.

After that it had been fire. It had been chaos. It had been death. It had been a world of ash and pain, where there was no comfort in knowing that their part of the flooded, battered world had only suffered one flash from the sky, not two like their former friends in Europe.

And who knew what had happened in Asia? Except that Japan's islands had all sunk by the hundreds, and that most of Polynesia and all of the Pacific nations were gone. No one knew anything else. Russia was the only one who had successfully made it back and forth across the Pacific, and he'd only just managed it by hugging the new coastline that had swallowed most of America and Matthew's west cost regions. Mexico was faring no better. Matthew hadn't seen Cuba in well over a year...

So the sunlight soothed him, and because he took those few moments to just stand there and wish, despite the danger of wishing, he saw Russia's submarine rise out of the poisoned ocean to greet him. That was how, when Alfred came running down the beach screaming about a new boatload of refugees, Matthew could surprise him by saying he already knew.

The sun vanished behind the clouds, and Matthew Williams got back to work.

* * *

All Spain could tell them was that France had gone to London to be with England at the very end. There was nothing else from Western or Central or Northern Europe. It broke Matthew's heart to hear so little, but not even North Italy, who didn't even look like himself anymore, would answer Alfred's questions beyond the simple fact that South Italy was dead. He wouldn't tell them how, or when, or where it had happened, and after Alfred tried egging him for the third time Matthew quickly shut it down.

They gave their condolences regarding Romano, and the conversation moved on.

There was more to say about the Mediterranean basin, but Russia did most of the talking. He brought back the small, shattered pieces of a building tile from what remained of the Isle of Cyprus, and Matthew and Greece spent several hours together that night. Greece told stories from the Before and Matthew listened diligently, smiling when he could bear it even if Greece couldn't see it through his sad, milky eyes.

The geography had changed wildly after the Calamity. All of Europe had been effected by the sounds of things but the Mediterranean had been the focus of Ivan's journey. Somehow, Denmark had left Messina (Somehow, Matthew remarked, he had been _in_ Messina) before the combined effects of the rising sea and the island's volcanoes dragged Sicily into the sea just like Cyprus.

Russia and Matthew quietly agreed, after Feliciano had long since bowed out of the conversation to find work in the camp, that the impact of losing Sicily and all of his low-lying regions would have killed Romano regardless. If South Italy hadn't died from whatever had happened in Cosenza, then the ash would have poisoned him as slowly as it was killing Greece.

Two weeks later Matthew remembered and deeply regretted that conversation with Russia. There was just something about digging Heracles' grave with Italy next to him that made all the hypothesizing and pondering feel like a terrible, tasteless joke. Even though Italy and Greece hadn't had the best history with one another, everything that came from the Before was forgotten as the Italian mercilessly dug six feet down and six feet long, dirty sunlight filtering down on their backs with no warmth. Matthew couldn't read his expression under the respirator mask, but as soon as the task was complete Italy was out of the hole and asking if there was anything else that needed to be done. There wasn't. And the Italian vanished.

He always did that though, and it just hammered into Matthew's head how _different_ the world had become. There were so many things to keep track of in the camp that watching Italy wasn't high on Matthew's list, but he still noticed how Italy always took his meals standing up, and he only ever discussed tasks around camp, and Matthew never once caught him dozing or relaxing anywhere. Even Russia had the time to kick a salvaged ball around the square with the camp children, even Lithuania would take a nap in the fields when the weather was tolerable, but not Italy.

Italy was always running errands, or carrying tools, or putting something together, or taking something else down. He was always on his way out into the fields, or he was ordering the young and the strong into position to raise the wall of a new building, or the structure of a new tent. Alfred put him to work with the handful of engineers and architects who'd survived and remembered their craft. The team erected a series of flag-poles made of welded metal pips in the centre of camp, and they hauled concrete slabs and debris around for building foundations. They levelled the camp "square" using shovels and metal drums filled with sand, and then they fashioned the mail-boxes for grief-letters out of old corrugated steel sheets that were too small for anything else.

Italy was an old nation, he'd practised the ancient crafts like blacksmithing and woodcraft for a lot longer than Matthew or Alfred, and he hadn't forgotten them in the span of two industrial centuries. The bulletin boards were torn down and rebuilt with scrap-metal posts that he showed the former mechanics how to heat and hammer into one solid chunk with just an oven, a hammer and a pair of tongs. He even rebuilt one of the ovens just so it could be used to concentrate heat properly for that kind of work. He gave the architects the simple tools they'd need to re-organize the layout of the tents to keep everything orderly and in control. No clever measuring devices or photographs, just wooden rods, lengths of twine, and a lot of ancient know-how.

The only time Matthew ever caught Italy actually standing still was purely by chance, one night a month or two after Heracles' burial. He'd just jumped off the back of the transport from the beach, him and Alfred one of the few who'd gone out to see Ivan off at the submarine bay, and there was Italy standing silently in the fenced off yard where the dead were buried. The fence was a new addition, something Italy had been working on for days all by himself, and he was just standing at the foot of Heracles' grave with a makeshift hammer still in his hand.

Italy made the sign of the cross over his chest and then kissed a talisman that was hidden behind his burnt fingers. Matthew walked away before Alfred could ask what had caught his attention.

The next morning Matthew saw Greece's flag, made from cloth strips that were sort of blue and mostly white, flying from the pole where the Italian flag had been the night before. The architects raised another flag-pole later that week and the Italian tricolour returned to its place in the grey sky.

A few weeks later, Alfred finally made up his mind about Italy, and Matthew wholeheartedly agreed.

Unfortunately, Italy did not.

"Why am I being moved?"

"Huh?"

Matthew was with his brother and Mexico when Italy stepped into the tent and asked his question. Seasons were still tricky to keep track of, but there was a lot of clean, fresh sunlight spilling in at Feliciano's back as the scar-faced Italian stood there, waiting.

"My duties." He clarified, and Matthew was more surprised to hear him speaking so directly than worried about what he was actually saying. "My name's not on the board anymore and the others told me to talk to you. What's _'Cultural Spirit'_ supposed to be?"

"Can you guys handle this without me?" Matthew asked, looking at Alfred, who was looking at Mexico, who was looking down at their map collection and just shrugged. They'd been discussing the bounty of supplies and fuel that had been unearthed under the remains of Alfred's Tennessee property a few days north of the camp, and really they'd just been bandying ideas around without getting anywhere. They could spare Matt for a few minutes, so he quickly bowed out to address Italy.

Even with the cache resources were still tight, so on a day with air this clear no one but the sick could be seen wearing respirator masks. Still, probably just out of habit both Italy and Matthew had theirs slung around their necks. Dust storms were uncommon and becoming increasingly rare, but that probably just meant they were seasonal. You never know when things could change, hence the reason why they were both also clad in the full set of worn-out dusty fatigues and long wool jackets, a worn out denim cap protecting the top of Italy's head. A red maple leaf was stitched to Matthew's right shoulder and the Italian tricolour was on Italy's, a blue band with a ring of stars strapped to his left arm marked him as one of them: with people and nations dressed the same, it was important to be able to recognize who was who under jackets and masks and goggles.

"Well?" Italy wasn't wearing his mask or his goggles, and the collar of his jacket was down so Matthew could see his face just fine. Mad was not the word for it. Italy was different but Matthew hadn't seen him _mad_ once yet, and probably never would, but he was taxed, and he was annoyed. He was about as close to mad as he could get.

"Hey, calm down." Walking Italy away from the tent, the two of them passed the steel mail-box and stopped by the job board where lists of teams and names and duties were posted, one board for each sector of the reorganized colony. After a few moments, Italy pointed to his name "Feliciano Vargas" under a new group titled _Cultural Spirit_.

"I was with the engineers."

"I know, but we could really use you here."

"Doing what?"

"Compilation mostly." Matthew tried not to smile too much at that, tried not to remember too hard before it was time. "Poems, songs, stories, paintings, maps; anything to help us remember the old world."

Italy scoffed.

"Do we have time for that?"

"We'll make time." Matthew looked at the other man curiously, shocked that he'd even ask a question like that. Italy wasn't seriously questioning the importance of art, was he? "The elderly can teach the young, the invalids can do whatever you need: make brushes, paints, instruments."

"Canada, be serious."

"I am! What's wrong with you?"

Matthew knew better than to remember. He knew better than to think back to the Before, to the Better, to the (still, in many ways) Real. They all knew that nostalgia was far more deadly than the ash or the toxins or the wilds, but sometimes it was inevitable. Sometimes Matthew would look at Italy's hunched shoulders and constant focus and remember him with his smiles and his laughter, and he would beg to know what had happened. How had he burnt himself so badly? Why was he always so restless? Why couldn't he let himself sit down and rest? When did he even let himself sleep?

The answer was too obvious, too simple: two flashes and the end of the world. That was what had happened. Romano had died and Germany was unaccounted for and Japan was lost forever, and no amount of condolences or apologies or empathy was going to change that. Italy didn't wear his grief on his sleeve, but that was the problem: he didn't express _any_ of it, his eyes just scanned for the next bit of work to be done, and there wasn't a thought in his head left for anything else. That was the answer and this was the problem, and watching Italy refuse to look at him hurt almost as much hearing the same question repeat itself over and over again in his mind: _Why?_

No, Canada and Italy had never been very close. And it was true, how, because of immigration and the wars Alfred had known Lovino better than either of them had known Feliciano, but Matthew had still known both brothers well enough to say that this was wrong. He couldn't pick a fight over Italy's new attitude or spit in the face of his work-ethic, but this, right here? This was wrong.

"The people need art."

"I'm not saying they don't."

"The artists need a teacher."

"Then get Antonio to do it. He was always big into culture."

"Spain's busy with the-"

"Then I'll take his place in the fields!" Italy had been staring at the board, now he rounded on Matthew and stood with his back straight and chin up. He didn't have to be taller, he just had to be tall enough and lift his shoulders and stand in a way Matthew had never seen him before; standing like a soldier. Standing like an angry, insulted soldier. "That's where I wanted to be in the first place, but you kept going on about my skills and you put me with the architects instead. Fine. I didn't care. But if you think I'm done with them then put me out in the fields with a hoe and a plough, not sitting at a table with the children and a bunch of invalids- your own words!" Italy added the last part in a hurry, cutting Matthew off before he could speak: "If art is for the old and the young and the invalids, Matthew, then let an invalid teach them, not someone who is strong and who can work."

"Italy, you're the only one left who even _remembers_ the European arts!" He didn't mean to raise his voice like that, but Matthew had to make him see reason. "Spain was in decline for the nineteenth century and civil war for half the twentieth- whatever he had he's forgotten and whatever was left he destroyed! Sculpture, painting, the opera, architecture, poetry, philosophy, _Italy!_ The others are all dead or missing; Greece, France, Germany, England, Austria, Poland! We still have Russia but we need his industry, so we need _your_ memory!"

There, did that- did that get through? He may have gone too far, but-

"You don't need the old ways. Make your own art." No. No it hadn't worked. The only thing it had accomplished was it made Italy relax his shoulders just enough and bring his arms up stiffly over his chest, his head tipping down as he closed his eyes. The hat helped obscure the uneven places where his scalp had been burnt, and he'd grown out the rest of his hair to help hide the deformities, the auburn lengths covering his scarred cheeks as he stood there. Matthew was at a loss as he listened to Italy's refusal. This should have been something he'd jump at; the chance to teach and create and inspire. Instead, he just said: "I didn't come here to reminisce, Canada. I came to work. Either give me a proper job or send me back."

"Back where?" Matthew didn't want to ask, it just happened, and Italy just tilted his head back to look at the dirty blue sky over the waving flags. There was finality in his words.

"Back to Europe."

Italy walked away and Matthew watched him with blurry eyes.

For some reason, his vision never did clear up.

* * *

**Like the title said, this is a completed 3-shot. Since this was published on a Tuesday, why don't you guys give me till Thursday for the next one? Sound good?**

**21 Guns, Pale, Somewhere, Safe and Sound, Memories, Paradise, Written in the Stars, That HetaOni Song That I Don't Know the Name of That Starts with a Mandolin.**


	2. Two of Three

**21 Guns, Pale, Somewhere, Safe and Sound, Memories, Paradise, Written in the Stars.**

**Still not my fiiiic~ Still updating here because Happy Thursday everyone!**

**While looking for what the fandom usually calls Mexico, I discovered Nadiezda's Deviantart page and her design for him. I'd already written up my description of what he looked like (which, I'll be frank, is vague at best and more focused on personality), but the name Eduardo totally comes from her jaw-dropping art. Everybody check it out!**

* * *

_**Walls**_

Part Two of Three

Needless to say, Ivan was not impressed when he came home to hear that Canada and America had left to look for France and England back in Europe. But more than that, he couldn't believe that they had gone by _plane._

"The ash over Western Europe is no joke." He said simply, seated across from Spain in one of the sturdy canvas tents that made up the bulk of the camp's structures. "Fools, both of them."

"They're looking for their family, you know that."

It was dark out, the two of them seated at a table constructed out of an old crate, sitting on boxes Ivan knew were actually filled with supplies. Everything served a dual purpose nowadays, every inch of space that was sheltered from the elements was priceless. Taking a drink of the fresh water in his little tin cup- an old can, the Russian was craving vodka but, really, he'd been doing that for years. He focused on the sweetness of the purified liquid in his cup and listened to the whistling sound of the summer squall beating their camp from the west.

As frustrated as he was with Spain's news, Ivan was still happy to be home. When the Spaniard pulled something out of his pocket and slowly unwrapped it in the light of the battery lamp they had glowing next to them, Ivan immediately sat upright at the sight of something red.

"Is that a-?"

"First of the new world."

A tomato. Thick and- well, more orange than red, and more yellow than orange, but firm and filled with a fresh, clean scent as Spain split the fresh (_fresh_) fruit with his knife and quartered it. When Ivan, who had really never been too fond of raw tomatoes, reached out for the sprig of green still attached to the top, Spain let him grab and inhale the bitter scent of the plant.

"How?" Ivan breathed, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He'd suck it straight up his nose if he wasn't careful, but he didn't care. Green, green, green...

Ivan and Alfred had both buried supplies during the Cold War. Bunkers fit for hundreds, with seeds and grains and saplings for replanting in case of nuclear war. Many of those stockpiles had been raided in the chaos, but enough had survived both in America and over-seas to give the new colonies a fighting chance. What Ivan found so amazing now as he was handed an unripe wedge of wet, bitter tomato, was that the fruit was not a staple: it had never made its way into either American or Russian bunkers for genetic preservation because it wasn't a cornerstone of their diets. Potatoes, wheat, barley, corn, peas, beans of all kinds, soy, black pepper, different berries, gourds and diverse fruits like apples... Sun-soaked fruits like tomatoes and bananas had been canned and packed, but their seeds had never...

If America had hidden this information from him, Ivan was willing to forgive him as his teeth bit into the surprisingly bitter, but oh-so perfect jelly of the tomato wedge.

"Italy, if you can believe it." Really? Ivan couldn't. "He smuggled the seeds all the way from Rome after his bunker collapsed. Tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, pomegranate, even grapes- his very best wine grapes..." Spain's eyes were so red around the edges that Ivan was careful not to swallow too many of the seeds as he took another bite. Seeds were precious. "Grape vines take years to grow, especially from seeds, but we've got them. But I couldn't wait and I put the tomato seeds in a pot an hour after I got them..."

"So that's what the new greenhouses are for." Ivan had seen them, the two plastic tents set up within the limits of the camp- the other buildings would keep the wind from knocking them over in storms like this one. He hadn't had a chance to ask what was in them when the weather turned foul. "I'm happy. Really I am. And the voices I heard when we arrived, it sounded like the beginnings of a choir: is that Italy's work too?" So much joy in such a short time, Russia had only been gone about four months.

"Ah, no. Lithuania and I have been working on that."

Ivan stared.

Lithuania?

Lithuania was teaching people to sing?

"I know we don't have any dogs, Spain, but surely you know that's a bad idea." He said, with all seriousness. "You could hurt someone."

"Hey! We're doing the best we can!"

"Your best would be Italy, or did Toris burst his eardrums just singing scales?"

Spain's smile vanished completely and Ivan stopped himself from reaching for another slice of tomato. It was the first time he noticed that the Spaniard hadn't taken a single bite. Wasn't this the first one?

"Where is Italy?" He asked. Ivan had been alright with not seeing him when he arrived, he'd hardly seen anyone except Spain and his sisters before the storm came rolling in. But Spain seemed uneasy now, taking a deep breath as he rubbed the stump of his missing leg, his long wool jacket open over the rough, sweat-stained grey of his shirt and pants.

"He left."

"Left?"

Another uneasy Spanish breath.

"He went to help Mexico survey the south coast. They left three months ago."

Ivan stood up.

"The south is dangerous."

"I know."

"The environment hasn't settled down yet."

"I know."

"Whatever America says, there are still rouges down there."

"I know."

"We don't even have a proper map of-"

"Russia we know, that's what they went for: to draw a map and survey the land for possible expansion."

Ivan sat down again, disgruntled, and looked down at the sectioned fruit on the table with a new sense of understanding. Spain followed his gaze and nodded.

"Three months you said..." Ivan repeated, watching Spain purse his dark lips slowly, his eyes focused on the fruit. "When do you expect them back?"

"Two weeks ago." Spain's words were hushed, all the Russian could do was lean forward on his seat slowly, one elbow on the table and a hand running through his grey hair. This... was not what he'd wanted to come home to. This new world was too difficult sometimes, Russia had grown used to the comforts of the Before.

"He'd been arguing with Canada and America for days about them moving him away from construction work," Spain began, and Ivan looked up so he could listen. Of course the Spaniard was upset, he'd lost the only other Romance Nation left in the world, the brother of his favourite and long lost colony. Spain's voice was thick, but at least his eyes were dry. "Mexico offered to take him on the expedition so they could all calm down. Italy jumped at the chance but America tried to shut it down, and instead of yelling Italy just pulled several vacuum-sealed pouches out of his shirt. He held them over one of the ovens and threatened to burn them if they didn't stop trying to interfere with him."

No. Impossible. Italy would never destroy something like that- not seeds from his homeland.

"That's what Belarus thought, so when she tried calling his bluff he threw the lemon seeds in. Two days after Alfred and Matthew left in that plane, Eduardo and Feliciano set out on foot."

The loss made Ivan close his eyes, running a hand back through his matted, oily hair again and again as he soaked in the information. Looking up again, he watched the lantern light settle over the glistening insides of the tomato, mentally counting weeks to try and connect with how everything had come together. It took a long time for a seed to become a plant and bear fruit, but the tomato was only so big, and it really was more green than yellow...

"That boy..." Spain said slowly, green eyes filled with something depressing. Ivan turned away in his seat until he could look back at the rows of cots filling up the back of the tent. He could just barely see Belarus' head where she was laying down next to Ukraine, both of them having fallen asleep waiting for him to join them, his tattered scarf wrapped around his little sister's shoulders. "Italy always could drive a hard bargain when he wanted to. He had Europe by the balls for centuries until Jan and Arthur started sailing around everywhere. Francis too..."

It certainly spoke of planning and intention on Italy's part; withholding something so valuable from the rest of them just so he could use it to his advantage when he needed to. Ivan would have been more upset if someone had actually been hurt though. It was cruel of Italy, but also very like him: he would rather attack someone's wallet or luxuries than the actual person. He'd always been that way. No one would die without lemons in the new world, they would just lose that part of the Before.

Silence followed the old, dusty memory. That recollection of the time when Italy had been a cultural player and Russia had paid astronomical prices for goods coming through Venice from the far-east. Eras of trade and exploration were so far gone now that neither Ivan nor Antonio could remember what a single colonial war had been about. But somehow, in some way, Ivan was okay with hearing how Italy had still kept that shrewd sense of value and trade. Being selfish was a way of surviving, and they were all survivors.

Italy would not die down south. Russia wasn't worried about Mexico either.

"Couldn't you..." But still, still there was a question Ivan had to ask. Even if Spain made it sound like the problem had just been between Italy and America and Canada, obviously Mexico had taken Italy's side, so what about everyone else? "Couldn't you have just found him work here?" He asked, not expecting much, but maybe Ivan would receive something for his trouble. "Laying bricks or tilling fields, even digging ditches would have made him happy."

When he glanced back up, Spain was staring at him.

"He... kept asking for things like that." Oh? That didn't surprise Ivan.

"Why didn't you listen?" Spain frowned.

"C'mon, Ivan, I shouldn't have to explain Communism to you. That's what we're living in, isn't it?" Oh? Oh were they really going to have this discussion? Ivan wasn't upset at all by the subject, he'd been waiting for it, waiting for almost two years and he was really quite thrilled. He drank his sweet water and popped another bite of tomato in his mouth while Spain spoke. "Each member does what they're best at for the benefit of the group. Italy has more skills than your average grunt."

Ivan lifted his hand right at the word_ 'best'_, but didn't interrupt. This was going to be a short discussion. How disappointing.

"Don't lump it together like that." He said, lowering his hand. "Do you want the Marxist doctrine or the Stalinist?"

"Err, trick question?"

"Not really." Swallowing the last of his water, Ivan toyed with another slice of the tomato sitting on the dirty table. "America seems to like Marx nowadays, so everyone existing on the same level and trusting individuals to do what they can is what's been keeping us alive." Hobbes may have been king in Europe, but Marx had been adopted here. "Stalinism gets things done. It points to a leader who rushes the masses out of starvation by forcing everyone who can work, to work, regardless of the individual's feelings about the work they've been assigned. But if the doctrine of group survival isn't enough then the leader has to be able to use force: that is why Italy left. If you trust him like Marx says then he will do what he thinks is best for the colony. If you force him like Stalin then he'll push back and require force to keep in line."

Ivan was alright with explaining this, even if he was dramatically over-simplifying things. Communism could raise a population out of devastation and ruin and give them back their lives, but it would only work so long as the threat of external violence was still upon them: the ash, the sickness, the scarcity. It would take years for them to rise above this, probably an entire generation or two, but by then they would have to move on from the current set-up.

Alfred dreamed of a colony, of a world, without borders. Ivan knew that that dream would come, but only until people had good food to eat and warm beds to sleep in. Then they would talk, then they would think, then they would wonder. Whether it happened between individual colonies on this continent, or between colonies here and the ones they would establish in Europe, or even if it was as small as one block of tents in the camp resenting another block of tents, divisions would arise and people would turn on one another.

Ivan had been Communist for a long time, but there was a reason why he had not been a Marxist. And factions were the whole point of nations anyways: protecting those close to you from the others far away and surrounding you. Many of them had died in the Flashes and their aftermath, what else could you expect? But new ones would be born. Maybe not right now, but soon. In the next few years at least: little republics and brand new kingdoms, tiny principalities and duchies and communes. The same things had been happening for millenia and, terrible and traumatic as it was to lose the world of the Before, the fact that the change had come from space was not going to stop history or humanity from carrying on as they always had.

And that, like Italy's bold actions with the seeds, gave Ivan peace of mind. Everything, but not _everything_, had changed.

"Good God, Ivan, we weren't trying to chain him to an easel or forcing him to write propaganda." Poor Spain, missing the point as usual. "We gave him what he's always loved!" Missing all of the points, actually, not just the philosophy.

"Eat the tomato."

"What?"

"You've always loved tomatoes, Spain, and they're good for you: eat it." Spain squirmed in his seat, Ivan pressed the issue. The fact that Spain didn't demand an explanation for the change in subject told the Russian everything. "Why aren't you eating it?"

"Alright, I get it." Spain wouldn't look at him, he was rubbing his leg again.

"When did you last have a fresh tomato?"

"You've made your point, now stop."

"With whom did you eat it?"

"Ivan _enough!_" Anger and a touch of hurt, more than a touch actually.

"Is it? Because you don't seem to be catching on too quickly."

A long, uneasy silence stretched between them after that, but Ivan wasn't even sure if Spain understood him or not. He didn't want to have to spell this out for the Spaniard: he had a long history with Italy, North and South, he shouldn't need anyone to draw him a map. Sadly, Spain's next comment, several minutes later, told him no:

"So next is the North Sea... What did you see in Africa?"

Ivan sighed, placed his elbows on the wooden table, and ate his tomato.

* * *

"You know what we found? A _river_."

"I'm just glad you found your way home, idiot."

One of the many things Antonio had been grateful for since arriving in the Colony was Mexico. That was why it had been so hard to almost, _almost_ lose him to the southern frontier, but a month after Russia came back for a long rest at home, his little brother made it back okay. Antonio didn't know how to handle seeing him again, how to handle talking to him again, and he was just happy that the fool didn't rush off or complain about getting him to shut-up for a moment.

It was so hard and he was so grateful because, no, Spain and Mexico had not always gotten along very well. And no, they had not always liked, or at some points even _tolerated _one another_,_ but all of that was from the Before. All Antonio cared about now was that Mexico was alive, and all that mattered was that the only other person left in the world who spoke Spanish was still with him: that the last shred of Spain's family from the Before was back with him again.

And it didn't matter if Mexico's Spanish was weird and broken and funny-sounding, it was Spanish and in the murmur of voices gathered together enjoying their mid-day meal, Antonio was thrilled to hear it.

"Alright, a river. Do you know which one it is?"

"Judging from the erosion along the river bank, it's new, but it's there."

"Is it clean?"

"Check this out."

Mexico was lively, the Calamity had not changed that. He had been beaten down with the rest of them and with his southern territories mostly underwater or uninhabitable he wasn't as strong as he should have been, but he wore a patch over his missing eye with pride, and he'd started keeping his hair trimmed short since it was impossible to wash and tend to anymore- but obviously that kind of grooming hadn't been available to him. After four months of travelling around outside the camp the black curls were thick and hung long around Mexico's dark face, but they didn't seem to be bothering the other nation right now as he chattered.

The two of them were seated on the ground with their rations in one of the half-constructed buildings that had been slowly rising up in the middle of camp, just off the main square. It was a meal-hall without a roof, just canvas lengths running back and forth imperfectly to cover against the occasional spitting rain or falling ash, but most of the camp's cooking activities went on here instead of between tents. It was safer like this, fewer fires meant fewer risks of accidents. The smell of the food was enough to drive people insane, but the fact that there was enough for everyone to have at least a little bit kept tempers down and the mood calm, happy, maybe even a little excited.

Mexico was rooting around in the heavy bag behind him when Antonio's eye caught Italy scurrying through the crowd. The two of them had only just returned today, arriving through the haze an hour or two ago from the south. He wasn't sure where Italy had vanished off to since then, but he was here now, and Antonio got his attention with a sharp whistle and a shout.

"Oi! Feli, come sit with us!" Careful not to spill his food, and keeping his portion of fresh bread in the hand he waved with (so Mexico didn't steal it, because he would), Antonio made sure to grin widely and keep talking: "My little brother was just telling me about your great discovery! Get over here!"

Italy seemed to think about this for a moment, and Antonio was afraid that he'd just dart away somewhere to escape a conversation, but finally the Italian gave a brief nod and started towards them. Antonio was relieved, and Mexico scooted over on his ass in the dirt so there was room for him to sit. It didn't occur to Antonio until Italy was already down at his side that he had called out to him in Spanish, not English.

All three of them had the same meal, no more or less than the humans scattered around them: a thin piece of the rationed flat-bread that had been made without yeast or baking powders, and a hot tin of the hardy, easy-to-grow, easy-to-preserve, easy-to-boil-and-flavour-and-fill-up-on beans that made up the bulk of their diet. Meat was impossible to come across, but protein was important. Sometimes, more like only very rarely, they could find animal tracks somewhere around the camp, but no one had tried hunting yet. It just seemed like an unspoken rule that so long as they weren't starving the humans wouldn't turn on the animals just yet.

"You mean the river, right?" Italy asked quietly, nibbling on his bread as he looked at them, his thick, oily auburn hair beginning to spin itself into dread-locks after so many months without care. Spain had a spoonful of beans in his mouth when Mexico piped up with a laugh.

"Of course! But-" Antonio watched his little brother stumble from one language into the other while speaking to Italy, briefly reminded of both Canada and America when it came to bilingualism. "Hey, English or Spanish, which do you want?" Huh?

"Ita doesn't speak-" Antonio began, but Italy just gave a small wave with one hand, his threadbare gloves failing to hide his red skin where the fingertips had worn off.

"Either-or, I don't mind." What?

"Hah! This guy, 'tonio, we were out for a week before he bothered asking for English!" Antonio filled his mouth with food to keep from asking when or how North Italy had learned Spanish. But it was too easy: any painful memory of Lovino's temper held the answer.

"You were going too fast, I couldn't hear you..." For a moment he almost thought he saw worry crack Italy's scarred face, but he gathered himself up behind a shy smile. At least it was good to see that the two of them had gotten along well while they were out there: God protect anyone stranded with an enemy...

And they'd survived, that was what mattered most. It was easier to forage and survive here than it had been in Europe: plants were beginning, just barely, to live again, but Italy and Mexico had still been gone for so long that people in camp had not only begun to worry, they'd actually stopped wondering. Death was a given in this new world, their return was a miracle.

"The river, Mexico. Did you show him what we found?"

"Not yet. Here, look at the PH reading we got." Mexico beamed as he pulled out a crinkled, dusty plastic bag. A tiny square of paper, smaller than his pinky nail and a bright pink colour, was trapped inside a small glass bottle and a matching bottle holding cloudy water was sitting next to it. Mexico set the bag down between the three of them and wolfed down half the contents of his little bowl, speaking obnoxiously between big bites: "Strong as lemon juice and smells like piss, but if it's permanent then in a couple of years we could start drinking it, and we could run supplies up and down it to colonies and posts along the way. It's wide, it's deep, and the part we followed was free of any serious rapids.

"But there _were_ rapids." Italy pointed out, his voice still hushed behind his blistered lips. Antonio just listened and nodded along as they explained, watching Mexico inhale his food.

He had no idea when or how or where or why, but damn it if Mexico didn't sound and act a lot like Prussia. Antonio knew, he _knew_ he got his energy from living so close to America. He _knew_ that Mexico was so headstrong because he'd been born in the new world, that he was so talkative because he'd tried to be a leader for all his long-gone siblings in Latin America. He knew that, but all the Spaniard could think of was Prussia, and it hurt.

He was glad that Gilbert had never learned Spanish. It would have been too uncanny if he had.

"We could do all of that, unless it's just run-off from up north." Antonio pointed out, and Mexico scowled at him in a way only he knew how. "It could dry up."

"That's why I said _if it's permanent._" Mexico shot back, filling his mouth with bread this time and chewing sharply. "We've got sketches and dimensions of several prime locations along the river too; Feli here drafted us like half a dozen new maps."

"That's great! Woah- slow down?" Antonio's cheer faded into the suggestion when he looked over and found Italy already beginning to stand up, the last of his bread in his mouth and his bowl wiped completely clean of any remaining broth. The Italian glanced through matted red hair, and even without a brow to knit together it was clear between the look in his eyes and the pucker on his lips that he was asking what was wrong. When Antonio didn't say anything, Mexico filled the silence:

"You headed back out to the fields?" _Back _out?

"Yeah."

"Drink something first." On command, Mexico pulled half a bottle of water out of his bag and held it out, Italy shifting into a crouch and dutifully draining the contents in a few long, steady gulps. Before Antonio could get a word in edgewise, Italy was on his feet again and gave a small wave, carrying his spoon and bowl away through the crowd and vanishing in the dust.

Antonio almost got a word out before Italy was completely gone, but Mexico kicked him first.

"Don't."

"What the hell was that?" And don't kick him! Antonio only had one leg left!

"Spain, I said don't."

"You two have been gone for _four_ months, and your just gonna let him-?"

"Work? Yes. Yes I am." Mexico finished his meal, Antonio flipped.

"He'll collapse!"

"He'll be fine." No! "'tonio I just spent almost half a year with him out in the ash with the rebels, I know what he can handle." Four months, which was _a month and a half too long_ for starters, and second of all:

"You don't walk thirty kilometers in a day and then go out into the fields for ploughing!" He let the sharp words fire off his tongue without hesitation, and Mexico fixed him with a dark, one-eyed glare over his dish. "Don't give me that look either; you came just as far as he did and look at you! You're exhausted. You can talk all you want but you can barely stand."

"I just feel it differently."

"You feel it _normally_." Antonio shot back, frustrated, irritated, worried: he could keep listing words but he'd rather just hear an answer. "What's wrong with him? Is he sick? I haven't seen him coughing-" Mexico just shook his head, setting his bowl down on the dirt between them and looking up at him, elbows on his knees and back hunched over, his dirty face crowned with filthy black ringlets.

"He's _grieving_, 'tonio."

"Well he should be _sleeping_." The two of them sat there and stared at one another in the dirt, Mexico fixing him with such a harsh look that Antonio just had to glare right back at him, not sure why they were doing this. The conversation had killed his meagre appetite, but he knew he still had several spoonfuls left in his bowl- and he wouldn't let them sit, he just needed his brother to make some sense first.

Finally, Mexico broke eye-contact, dropping his head and scratching his tangled black locks.

"No, I'm the one who needs to sleep." He grumbled, using a colloquialism Antonio wasn't familiar with before the Spaniard caught the meaning and, still irritated, nodded slowly, looking around for his crutch. "Just leave him be, Spain, he's not hurting anybody. He eats his rations, drinks his water, and does more work for this camp than three men his size. Let him have a bit of peace."

"Did he tell you what's wrong?" Antonio was remembering a discussion he'd had with Russia, who was thankfully still at home. The submarines would be leaving in another month but until then...

"Parts of it, I think."

"You think?"

"You Europeans are complicated, and he's not stupid." No, no Feliciano had always been a lot of things and stupid was not one of them, but closed off and evasive shouldn't have been on that list either.

"He's not hurting anyone, Spain."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Nothing's right anymore, Spain." Yes...

Yes, he knew that. It was almost impossible to forget whenever he looked at what was left of Lovino's little brother, and between Feliciano's scarred face and his bleak outlook Antonio couldn't find a shred of the nation he'd known from the Before. That was just how the world worked now, he understood that, he just hated it.

"Go get some sleep..." He just really, really hated it...

* * *

**I wasn't sure about whether to include this chapter or not, but the jump from the first one to the last was too extreme, I think, so this felt necessary. I'll give you guys the third chapter on Saturday, so look out!**


	3. Three of Three

**21 Guns, Pale, Somewhere, Safe and Sound, Memories, Paradise, Written in the Stars, Nowhere, Toy Soldiers.**

**Here we go, last bit!**

* * *

_**Walls**_

Part Three of Three

Toris had built a Commonwealth based on agriculture with Feliks by his side. The world of the After wasn't very conducive to farming, but he was determined, and he was ready to use every available resource to make it work.

The first few months of trying to farm had ended in disaster: the toxic rain had poisoned the first major crop, inspiring a shift to smaller fields and staggered growing. They hadn't enjoyed a proper "summer" since Toris had come to the Americas, but they hadn't had to slough their way through a frigid winter yet either. As long as the wind didn't try to blister the slowly rising stalks then they could maintain a mixed-bag of crops. Rye was the cereal of choice, wheat had always been a favourite of the Americans but Toris was in charge, and he wanted a plant that he knew as well as his own hands.

Diversity was key in such an unstable, inhospitable environment: potatoes, turnips, onions and carrots all found their way into the burnt ground, with the first performing the best in the mild temperatures and minimal sunlight of the new world. The earth swallowed the ash, toxins be damned, and it was tilled and ploughed and trodden on until the dark, rich soil that had made this continent so strong was revealed. Toris kept his mind off things like cancer and tumours and birth defects: it was better that the next generation endure the pain of the toxic past than tell the current generation to starve in the name of genetic health. They had survived too much to give up now: contaminated food could still fill hungry mouths.

And a full stomach was the first step towards an active mind.

"Ve~, Lithuania, did Estonia really manage to rebuild those Soviet radios?"

"Ah! You heard about that, too? I'm not surprised."

Toris was walking back towards Camp when Italy asked the question, the two of them the last to leave the fields after a messenger had run out to call everyone back within the boundaries of the camp. It wasn't an alert and no one was panicking, that was why the nations had finished their work about five kilometers from the campgrounds instead of rushing off. It was good news, it was something they'd been waiting weeks to hear: one of the submarines was making its way down the coast towards home.

"So it's true?"

"Not sure yet. The working ones we had left were all installed on the submarines so they could communicate with each other, but Estonia's been tinkering with the broken ones for use here at home." They were quite a ways off from being able to make _new_ radios, so restoring an old one would make Estonia king of the camp if he was successful. Maybe that was how they knew a sub was on its way? Had they made contact via radio?

Toris was getting ahead of himself, but as they trudged along under the grey sky he glanced up at the sunlight filtering weakly through the clouds. Rain clouds, he hoped, not ash getting ready to snow down on them like it still sometimes did. The rain was better now than it had been before: so toxic that it could burn skin, nevermind the crops they had struggled to take care of in the beginning. Mature plants could handle the sting of it now, but canvas tents were still set up to protect young patches of freshly seeded land. Italy jogged a few steps ahead of him now, a worn out blue cap resting on his head and a rough wooden rake propped against his shoulder. He leaned down to check the fraying cords holding up one such tent as they passed, frowning a little. It would need fixing...

"I'll take care of it later." Later Italy said, even with the daylight fading around them.

Toris didn't argue with him though, there was no point. He needed all the help he could get and he was prepared to defend Italy's work in the fields to secure it. Yes, he knew the Italian worked too much, anyone with two wits to rub together knew he worked too much: but he'd been doing that for months and months and it clearly wasn't doing him any harm, so why not let him? It filled something in him and it saved Toris the anxiety of having to do everything himself, so it was all good.

He... might have had this argument with Spain before. Maybe.

"You can leave it for the morning if you'd like."

"No, it's fine. After we get something to eat I'll come back out."

Don't argue. Toris fiddled with the flashlight hanging from his belt as the sun continued to sink over the horizon. Everyone else had been recalled hours ago, but there'd been so much recycled wash-water left behind that they'd spent the entire evening spraying it across the crops. Toris still had the modified bike-pumps hanging from his curled fingers, the coiled bodies of two reclaimed garden hoses slung over his shoulders. They were _heavy_, but Italy was visibly favouring his right shoulder after today.

"Let me check that arm of yours before you go." They kept walking at the same slow, tired pace, the the camp rising in the twilight and beckoning them home. "I don't need you straining yourself in the dark." Italy smiled and flicked his own flashlight on, the lamps and lanterns and torches of the camp all giving light for the final hour before people would begin going to bed. It was like how life had been before wide-spread electricity: up with the dawn and down with the dusk. Even if they couldn't see the sun, they obeyed it through the grey.

"It doesn't hurt."

"Really? Then take some of this will you?"

It was a simple test and Italy failed. He didn't just shift awkwardly with the rake on his good shoulder, trying to figure out which arm to assign the burden too: when Toris handed him the bicycle pumps the Italian's whole body feinted to the right. The metal pump hit the ground in a clatter and Italy winced sharply, Toris trying not to sigh as he smiled at his over-worked friend and clapped him roughly on his _good_ shoulder.

"Liar." Bending down to retrieve the fallen pieces, he heard Italy tsk sharply under his breath.

"It's nothing."

"It hurts."

"I don't mind the pain." Ah, so this was going to be one of those moments then? They didn't come around very often, at least not with Toris and the people who worked closely, day in and day out at Italy's side, but they still happened. This was going to be one of those moments where Italy would grow increasingly defensive about something that wasn't worth getting worked up about, and he would stop speaking so much as well. Italy still wasn't as chatty as he'd been in the Before, and he certainly had lost that lazy, care-free attitude of his, but he was still friendly most of the time. He was still Feliciano under all the grime and scars- except for when he was like this.

"Feli, hey..." Make a point quickly or don't try at all. Toris had been working by his side for several months now, he knew what he was doing: "I know what it's like to be half of a whole nation, and what it's like to lose that other person." Toris straightened up with his burdens and found Italy staring at the dark ground between them, the sky continuing to darken as they stood there, stalled a few hundred yards from the camp's light. "I know it's hard, but that doesn't mean you have to do the work of two men now that you're-"

"Stop."

He- guh, _aaahh_, had that been a mistake? The dissolution of the commonwealth had been a _long_ time ago...

Italy had one hand part way up between them, his rake resting in his other hand with the working end sitting down on the ground. He rolled his wrist a few times as if looking for words, his eyes averted so Toris couldn't read his face, but he did hear a few soft words of Italian- or were they Latin? It sounded like an invocation: _"God protect me"._ But there were a few sounds after that, bits that Toris just couldn't hear well enough to translate. Unbidden, the brunet thought _"God save me from these idiots"_, but that seemed a bit harsh...

"I wonder why..." So soft...

"Italy?"

"I wonder why Russia's the only one who understands?" Um.

"Wait." Lithuania felt a sharp pain pierce him between the eyes. No. He had not just heard that. "_Please _say that again?"

"Spain doesn't get it, it's shocking." There was a fire in those brown eyes as they came up, staring through Toris rather than at him. "Romano was part of his empire and he just doesn't get it. I can't tell if he's ignorant or just _stupid_." His tone was venomous but it was still very quiet, and all Toris could do was watch Italy's arms begin to shake, his shoulders bowing slowly as if under some kind of weight.

"Felic-"

"I wasn't '_one half of a whole'_, Lithuania-" He heard but couldn't understand anything that came after that: Toris didn't speak Italian, and that was what Italy rambled off into before tossing the rake to the ground (his body swaying dramatically with the gesture) with a clatter and marching off with a messy stumble after he turned, still muttering. Toris didn't know what he was saying, he barely remembered Latin and most of that was reserved for church services; just terminology, not vocabulary, the things he'd learned from-

Oh.

Oh wait- that- didn't that mean-? So he...?

He didn't understand the angry words but Lithuania suddenly understood the _anger._ Realization crashed down on him like cold water as he gasped behind his respirator mask and let his eyes go wide in the dark. He stared straight up at the sky and tried to get through the light-headed feeling of his limbs tingling and his stomach clenching. Stupid- he was so _stupid!_ Had Spain really not known this? Where was everyone's head?

Toris closed his eyes and pressed his gloved hands over them, his empty stomach rolling over itself as second-hand frustration crackled through his system on the heels of epiphany. This shouldn't have taken so long to come out. Italy should have said something, Russia should have said something, Spain or Mexico should have figured this out months ago!

"Italy wait!"

The dark road was empty when Toris called out, and he couldn't understand why: even if Italy had started running he still should have been able to see him against the camp's flickering lights. Long black shadows swallowed the ground at his feet, but as soon as he started walking forward one of those shadows peeled away. Italy'd dropped his flashlight?

No. Italy's flashlight was attached to his belt.

Italy was-

"_Italy!_"

* * *

Ludwig never thought he would live to say this, but as the hatch opened to an almost blue sky and nearly clear air, the words just came:

"From the very bottom of my heart, the German people thank their Russian friends." His voice was husky and he kept his eyes on the sky, on the light, on the several metal rungs that would take him up out of the dark, silent deep where they'd been housed for the voyage across the ocean. The Russian captain standing next to him just smiled and nodded, eyes falling to his own boots.

"I doubt General Braginski will hold that against you, friend. Now please, you must hurry to the colony: there will be food there, medicine as well."

"Thank you."

Ludwig had lost weight and mass in the months (in the years?) of starvation and rations, his body reacting as expected to the famine and mass extinction of his people. Still, he was not in a position to complain, and between himself and a very fragile England several trips were made up and down the throat of the submarine to bring their stricken companions out into the milky daylight. The raft-ride to shore was very quick, but to Ludwig it felt like hours, and the anxiety of sitting in the back of the transport was unbearable. The longest thirty minutes of his life passed with a crippled France dozing on the German's shoulder and another feverish head in his lap, Ludwig riding with eyes wide open watching the alien landscape pass them by in a cloud of dust.

He watched and, not for the first time, he prayed: please, please, please let it not all have been in vain.

When they arrived, Canada was loaded onto a gurney and England coaxed the youth in Ludwig's care out of the truck and onto his shoulders, Arthur's back buckling under the weight but refusing to give him up. Someone told him where they were headed with the sick, but Ludwig barely had time to process the information before:

"_FRANCIS!"_

No one-legged man should have been able to move that fast, but France seemed able to take being nearly bowled over by the leaping Spaniard, the first laugh Ludwig had heard in days sparkling in the air. He could barely make heads or tails of the sounds they made to each other, a confused mess of French, Spanish, Latin and some English babbled and laughed and yelled and wept between Spain's neck and France's shoulder. The armless and the one-legged danced for several minutes and it hurt to watch or listen to them for too long; the only thing that didn't need translation was the emotion. So much emotion...

"I-Is that you, Germany?" Spain's acknowledgement made the moment even harder to handle, because without Gilbert there the feelings just- "Heaven above, I think Feli weighs more than you now..."

Ludwig found himself pulled into a hug and didn't resist it, closing his eyes and letting Spain welcome him to the other side. It didn't last very long, just enough to make the moment feel real, and then he heard the former kingdom whisper kindly in his ear:

"I'm so, so sorry..."

"We're all sorry." Ludwig answered, willing his composure not to break and compromising with the tears as he made himself smile past Spain's head, eyes closed and ears listening to the chatter of voices and the laughter of children. "Except Prussia. He was never sorry for anything." This place had _children..._

His was the right answer to give and Spain released him shortly after, his hands still resting on Ludwig's thin shoulders, a lost smile on his dark face as he looked the German over.

"You must be starving. Come on, they're still serving lunch." Lunch. There was enough food here that they could actually distinguish between and name meals. Ludwig could breathe the air without his mask, and he carefully stepped to the side to avoid a round hunk of plastic and newspaper being used as a ball by the children.

If he was dead, then heaven was already much more than God had ever promised. France had the long bent piece of wood that Spain used as a crutch tucked against his one elbow, and Ludwig didn't question how he'd picked it up off the ground as it was passed back to the Spaniard. But Ludwig hesitated before they started walking, turning his blue eyes on his surroundings instead, searching. There were splotches of paint on what looked like a mail-box, and somewhere in the mess he thought he heard voices chanting and repeating words for a song, but...

"He's here." Spain said. But when Ludwig turned around to look at him again, he seemed lost. "I'll send someone to check on him."

"Check?" Ludwig repeated, and he felt pain begin to build up quickly in his lungs. Not blinding, not crippling or crushing, but pain. "Is he..?"

"Ah, no- don't take it like that." Spain gave his head a quick shake, his brown hair looked black under the dirt and the long ringlets smacked his cheeks as he spoke, holding one hand up for a pause. "It was just last night, he and Lithuania were coming back from the fields when he collapsed."

"_Collapsed!-?"_ No! No this wasn't real! No! Not after everything!

"Germany-"

"Non, Spain, answer him." France spoke decisively and Ludwig just lifted his rough, salt-burnt hands up to his face, trying to cover his eyes but afraid to go back into the dark. "This is important; is he alright, and where can we find him?" He could hear France but just barely, his harsh breaths drowning out the laughter and the voices of the camp. No, no this wasn't possible. His worst fears were not coming true.

_'No, no, no! Don't let it end like this!'_ No, they couldn't lose their life-line like this. Italy couldn't die too...

"His tent is this way." Spain hobbled to show them the way and France followed, probably to keep an eye on Ludwig, but he really didn't care right now. "Did anyone else make it out with you?"

"Canada and America found their way to Germany and America stayed with Russia when he came to pick is up. They were headed to Gothenburg and should only be a few weeks behind us." Ludwig listened with half an ear as they moved down the straight, orderly lanes between blocks of canvas tents and leaning wooden structures, chicken wire fences and stacks of old tires decorating the dystopian neighbourhood. "Someone took Canada away, England followed him with-"

Spain turned and pulled aside the heavy flap of a large tent that looked no different from any other they'd passed, poking his head inside the dim interior before deciding it was the right one and moving inside. Ludwig followed and France quieted down, the three of them moving slowly as their eyes adjusted to the change.

Ludwig didn't doubt that when it was made, this tent had been meant for summer picnics and garden parties. The walls had been added after the fact; soiled canvas sheets stitched to the top and patched with all kinds of nylon and polyester fabrics. The outside was slicked with oils to keep rain from soaking through and ripping the structure down with the added weight. The floor was just the raked and hard-packed earth, the remains of a patio barbeque open on the floor with several lumps of hot charcoal burning away to provide heat in the closed space.

There were cots and beds and blankets and all kinds of things lining the walls. Everything seemed to be kept a safe distance from the fire, and even if they were strewn about and disorderly, Ludwig's compulsion for organization had no voice in his head right now. There was only fear, anxiety, and dread to occupy his thoughts. He didn't even know how many people were inside the tent with them, he just followed Spain towards the back of the long structure.

"He didn't have a bed, we had to..." Italy could have been resting on a bed of snakes for all the difference it made right now. Ludwig had no mind for such observations as the conversation faded to a low buzzing in the back of his head. He almost tripped over a pair of worn out black boots but just used that as an excuse to get down on his knees faster, hands reaching for the scarred red fingers resting outside the blankets.

Italy (Italy? Was this him?)- his body was swaddled in blankets; towels and sheets and quilts rewoven from shredded fabrics. His legs and torso were cocooned in the bedding where he was resting on top of several boxes, a long wool jacket like the one Ludwig was wearing making up the final layer. He had a grey sweater on under it all, a pair of tattered gloves and an old, worn out blue hat resting next to Ludwig's knees.

His face- _his face_... Italy's eyes were closed, his breaths slow and deep as Ludwig clutched his hand and looked down at the blotches and scales that coated his fingers, painting them the same harsh red as his cheeks and brow. Were these burns new? Would they hurt if he touched them? Somehow Ludwig heard France murmuring something along those same lines to Spain, who shook his head and said something the German didn't quite catch.

Pulling his own rough-woven gloves off, he placed his palm gently over Italy's forehead, brushing slowly down the side of his face and pushing away the thick dreadlocks that had taken over his head. Italy didn't stir, but he did take a deep breath in through the nose before he seemed to settle down even further in his slumber. The reaction, as small as it was, immediately put Ludwig's heart at ease: he was only sleeping...

"I'll have words for him when he wakes up, mark me." Spain was grumbling as Ludwig set his forehead down on Italy's shoulder, just resting like that with his fingers woven through the warm ones on the bed. He was willing to let France ask all the questions.

"Why would you do that? You said he's only been like this since last night."

"No, it only _caught up_ with him last night. I got the whole story out of Mexico: he's been pulling stunts like this since he got here."

"This is hardly a_ stunt-"_

Their voices dropped further and further away as the pair not only moved away through the tent, but they dropped their volume considerably as Ludwig lost interest in what they were saying. His concern was back, but he'd already caught enough tiny bits of information to satisfy his weak curiosity. Italy worked hard in the camp but he didn't rest, he worked until he reached the point of exhaustion, which for someone like them could take days, even weeks of hard labour to accomplish, and then he collapsed into a dead sleep. Ludwig had a hard time connecting that mental image to the memories he'd housed in his heart since the Calamity, but he just did not care enough about that right now to demand more information from Spain.

He was here. He was alive. He was in one piece. He was scarred but- really, what did scars matter? His hand was warm and his heart was beating, and as Ludwig just stayed like that with his head down on Italy's arm, he knew he smelled like sweat and dirt and whatever was on the blankets- but he still smelled like Italy. Not quite as sweet, and not as fresh as what Ludwig could have hoped for, but more real than the faded, worn out memories he'd been living off of for so long. Real and here and alive- but not awake.

Ludwig tried to hold on to the moment for as long as he could, but it had to end. Italy had to wake up; Ludwig had something to tell him that couldn't wait, so he had to wake up right now.

"Feliciano." But he wasn't going to do it roughly. Lifting his head up, Ludwig squeezed the hand he was holding and then reached out to Italy's face again, carefully brushing the unburnt skin under the slumbering nation's jaw. "Feliciano, wake up." No response, not right away at least. He repeated the action across the unwashed skin and spoke again, silencing himself when Italy's lips moved.

"_Come back... back to Rome..._" Tension pulled at the red skin between the Italian's eyes, but the words barely made it off his lips before he seemed to fall away again. And he didn't say '_Come back to Rome_', he said: _ritornare in Roma _in standard Italian. Soft and simple, it was something Ludwig only recognized because he understood more Italian than he could actually speak. _"Please..."_ Italian: _per favore_.

"Feli?"

"_Lovino..."_

It took several minutes to coax Italy out of his dreams, several long, difficult minutes where Ludwig was slowly, painfully reminded of the last time he'd spoken to his best friend and former ally.

Feliciano's pleading with Lovino was a request for Benedict: _"There's space,", "Please come,", "It's not far,". _And the requests became a simple statement towards Mario: _"Come right now to Rome,", "It's safer here,", "Don't do this,"_ and developed into blunt orders, almost angry, against Carlino: _"Don't argue with me.", "I'll send in the army!", "If I have to, I'll drag you back myself!"._

His sentences became longer but the words were still a mess to understand. Ludwig let go of Italy's hand as he slowly twisted under the blankets, his teeth clenched tightly around the one-sided arguments and his blistered lips peeled back in pain. Ludwig just stroked his hair, mindful of the sensitive curl floating free and undaunted next to his head, and tried to talk him through it.

"Wake up, Feliciano. It's over, it was over a long time ago..." The tears were impossible to ignore and he wiped those away too, no crocodile tears or disarming whimpers: these were genuine. These were painful. These tears were guilty and lonely and angry, and even when he pulled Italy up carefully into his arms the crying didn't stop. When Italy finally opened his eyes he was quiet, and the tension seemed to drain right out of him as he was held, but the tears didn't stop and the Italian didn't say anything for several long, trying minutes.

The first thing he did was reach up and quickly touch his own face, as if to confirm the tears Ludwig was still carefully wiping away. And then, in whispered English:

"Did I say anything?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of." Ludwig answered.

Italy tensed up as soon as he spoke. He didn't move right away, but with his spine slouched and forehead resting against Ludwig's throat, the change was difficult to miss. His tears had already begun to slow now that he seemed fully awake, and Ludwig loosened his arms considerably once he felt his friend start to move and pull away. He hadn't actually climbed up onto the cot, so it was a simple matter of letting Italy shift from his hip onto his back again while Ludwig settled back down on his knees next to him.

"I don't... understand." His face was different but Italy's eyes were the same, or similar enough to the memories that Ludwig didn't care to notice the differences. Wide, confused, and staring, he felt the Italian's gaze scan him from the top of his head down to the grey coat that was identical to the one spread across his own lap. He scrutinized his shoulders and his cheeks and his eyes, asking plenty of questions but also asking Ludwig not to answer them just yet. "Did... I die?"

"No."

"But you're here...?"

"Barely, but yes." In terms of strength and size Ludwig was, quite literally, half the man he used to be, but he was still alive and Italy- "Can you stand?"

"How..? How are you-?"

"Please, you need to get up." He didn't want to interrupt but at the same time, this was too important. "Are these yours?" Ludwig gestured to the boots sitting next to the cot, picking up one as Italy slowly, awkwardly started pushing away the blankets keeping him down on the makeshift bed. Ludwig knew he was fully capable of tying his own boots, but as soon as his friend tugged the first one on the German took care of the laces, Italy handling the second boot on his own.

"Where are we going?" Italy asked, Ludwig helping him to his feet and watching him slip on his jacket with the same awkward touch he'd used on the blankets. He slipped his blue hat on over his hair and started tugging on his ripped and ruined gloves before they started moving through the tent, back towards the sunlit entrance.

"Back to the square, someone's waiting for you."

"Someone-? _France!_"

They stepped out into daylight and Ludwig jumped as Italy abruptly shot past him towards Spain and France, the pair having moved outside to speak and assure privacy for both parties. Italy's reaction made sense; Ludwig had been travelling with France for over a year and he still wasn't used to the sight of the Frenchman's missing limbs; one arm gone from the shoulder, the other ending at the elbow. Thankfully, like Spain's leg and Italy's burns the wounds were old and only caused him so much pain now a-days, so the blonde simply lifted his stump up in a halting gesture before Italy could do more than gasp in horror and choke on his disbelief.

"Hush! Not a word, _mon chere,_ there will be plenty of time to weep over my astonishing beauty later!" France had lost a lot, but his flare remained. Ludwig mentally painted his other arm onto his torso, because France even had one hip thrust to the side like he was holding his hand there. "For now, quickly, take Germany to the place where you keep the sick in this camp, these tents are a terrible maze for us newcomers."

"The hospital?" Neither Ludwig nor France knew how to handle that word, the former just standing dumb while the latter rounded on Spain.

"_Hospital? _Are you telling me this place even-?"

"It's not _really_ a hospital, France!"

"Do you know where it is, Italy?" Ludwig asked, shaking himself free of this place's spell. Food and sunlight and children and medicine...

"This way." Italy was not enlightened as to why they were going to the hospice, but Ludwig just focused on getting him there. He was well aware of his friend's attention repeatedly swinging back around to him whenever they approached a turn, but he resisted the urge to answer his questions. When they reached the square again Italy stopped however, and without the know-how to navigate the camp and figure out which of the half-constructed buildings housed the sick, Ludwig was stranded there next to him.

"Who's waiting?" Ludwig wasn't used to having Italy turn on him, it was strange and it shook the steady high he'd been feeling since his arrival. "Spain wouldn't make eye-contact with me, and France wanted me gone as soon as he saw me. What's going on, Germany? Who did you bring back?"

"I arrived here with France, England and Canada."

"And?" And... "Ludwig, answer me!"

"And your brother."

Italy's eyes went dark, empty and dark as the irritation in his face drained away, replaced with nothing but a vague, uncertain expression. He didn't look like he was processing the information, it was more like he'd just stopped processing all together. He just shut down right in front of Ludwig, and when he spoke again his voice was cold.

"Romano is dead."

"It's not Romano."

Italy scoffed, and his next words were sharp:

"Well he's the only one anyone ever remembers." It took a lot to make Italy mad. He wasn't quite there, but suddenly he was very close. "An entire household gone and everyone acts like it was just one death. The others aren't even counted."

Stupid people. There were stupid people everywhere, wasn't the Apocalypse supposed to have fixed that part? Ludwig wasn't sure how what Italy was saying could be true considering _who_ his family had been, but he just shook his head and answered him.

"I remember." He said simply, and when Italy just scowled at him Ludwig proved it: "Benedict was the eldest, the Vatican City." Less like a brother, more like a father to the other members of Italy's household. Insular but out-spoken, not someone who would leave his house in Rome without a good reason, the figure head of the Roman Catholic Church. "I only met Mario a few times, because if Lovino was around they would argue and pick on each other." San Marino, the little republic whose constitution had existed longer than anyone else's. He'd been small and stubborn enough that his brothers had left him alone when consolidating their kingdom, and even Ludwig had neglected to pay him special attention during the Second World War. "Then Lovino, then you, and then-"

"_Italy!_"

Ludwig didn't recognize the voice, and Italy didn't acknowledge it as he stood there. His critical expression melted into something surprised, then hurt, then dying as his eyes slowly welled up with tears. He looked like he was coming apart and the grief forced him to look away, his red lips curled back and yellow teeth locked like he was fighting off a scream.

"Italy hurry! You have to come quickly!" Was that Latvia? Ludwig barely recognized the young teen who ran up and immediately grabbed Italy's sleeve, jerking the Italian around as Ludwig watched the scene play out in front of him. Yes, that was definitely Latvia, he was panicking too hard to be anyone else. "Please, I can't calm him down! He's calling for you and-"

"Who?" Italy asked, sounding shell-shocked as he gasped the word out and looked down at the blonde. "Which one is he?" Ludwig almost answered, but then he saw the shy, bashful look on Latvia's face and was confused.

"I-I can't remember his name, _but_-_!_" Rage flashed through the Italian and he took Latvia by the shirt before Ludwig could stop him, the German jumping to grab the fist Italy pulled back to slam into the Baltic's face.

"_Can't remember? You-!"_

"Italy!" He shouted. Latvia shrieked as he was assaulted, Ludwig shouldering his way in between the two as Italy hissed and spat furiously in his own language, violent threats and filthy remarks he hadn't made since his fascist days sparking through the air like live wires. When Italy planted his hands on Ludwig's chest and pushed back on him, his fatigue and weak health couldn't match the effects of good food and hard work on the other man. Ludwig couldn't remember a time when Italy had been strong enough to out-muscle him, but feeling his boots slide back over the packed earth scared his tongue into action.

"Italy stop it, this is not helping!"

"_Wah! I'm sorry!_ It's Peter's friend! I can't remember his name, I- I'm sorry but if you'll just-"

"_CARLINO!_" Italy bellowed, cutting them both off as he stopped trying to get at the trembling Latvian and settled for screaming at him in English. "His name is Carlino! And if you forget it again, Raivis _I'll-!_"

"Enough!" They'd drawn a crowd and Italy had his answer, shoving Ludwig away as he quickly stormed off in the direction Latvia had come running from. The trembling blonde didn't look like he knew whether to run away or follow him, but Ludwig quickly made up his mind and went after the Italian. As quick as he could, the German passed by buildings and tents and the groups of working survivors spread under the faint sunlight.

They heard shouting before they actually reached the 'hospital', a building made of reclaimed timber and concrete slabs. Ludwig heard one distant trill of Italian coming from inside before Italy started running:

"_They're dead! They're all dead! Stop lying to me!"_

As fast as he could, Ludwig charged after Feliciano and tried not to slam into anyone on his way. Small groups of fresh refugees were gathered about listening and receiving treatment in the small hospice from the staff of surviving doctors and nurses. More beds here, slightly better than the ones Ludwig had seen in Italy's tent. As they moved one crowd in particular immediately drew their attention with its screaming.

"_You said he'd be here when I woke up! And he's not! Let me go!" _England, bent and frail and scrawny as he was, had a solid grip on the youth who was fighting to get up off the bed. "_Let go! LET GO! Mario! Lovino!"_ From a distance it looked and sounded like the screams were brought on by pain, the terrified Italian words falling apart as the screamer thrashed and sobbed. Ludwig immediately lunged again to grab Italy by the scruff when he saw the shorter man heading straight for the struggle, bringing him up short with a grunt before he let him continue forward, just at a slower, struggling pace...

"He has a fever," Ludwig rushed to explain, "he slashed his palm on a piece of metal and it's badly infected. He's just scared, they're not-"

"_FELICIANO!_"

Italy's elbow came around and smashed Ludwig's cheek just under the eye, the blow stunning him enough that he both let go and dropped to the swept dirt floor in a heap. Nothing was broken, but Ludwig's first thought after his mind scattered and came back together was forgiving: he should have expected rougher treatment for getting in the way like that.

England was much wiser because he backed off as soon as he saw Feliciano coming, allowing the red-head he'd been holding down to shoot up off of the bed. The screaming stopped instantly and it didn't even matter whether Seborga had meant to go anywhere after reaching his feet or not, because North Italy was already there to catch him when he fell. Ludwig wasn't even sure whether the stunned Micro-nation even knew who was holding him before he burst into loud, hysterical tears and collapsed in his brother's arms.

Ludwig had found the Italian Micro-nation and the handful of survivors from his ruined town wandering lost in the chaos near what used to be the German-Italian border. They'd been searching desperately for a way to Rome but, between the ash hiding the sun and the radiation wreaking havoc with even the most basic compass, they'd been headed in the complete opposite direction.

There had been no way of knowing if any of the other Italians had survived the Calamity. Seborga had almost killed himself with guilt remembering how desperately, how furiously, North Italy had tried ordering them all back to Rome. At least then they could have been together, but they'd all refused: the Republic of San Marino, South Italy, and the Principality of Seborga had all stayed within their own territories and look what had become of them. Only the horror that he might be the last Italian nation out of five had kept Seborga alive for so long: he'd already known the Vatican City State was dead because he had been one of the last to believe that maybe, just maybe, the Rapture was really the prophecy mankind had been promised.

"_Papa! I want papa!_"

"He's with God now- hush, _hush..._"

"_Marino-!"_

"He's with papa..." Ludwig couldn't tell if Seborga was cramming his face against Italy's chest, or if the older brother was holding him like that. He just knew that the two weren't speaking in English, soft Italian soothing screams and sobs in the same language. Seborga's good hand grasped again and again down his brother's back, his infected one swollen to twice its normal size, wretched and inflamed.

England drifted away, probably to find Canada, and the doctor who had been hailed to help with Seborga's hand was called to help someone else for a moment. Ludwig moved far enough back that he wasn't intruding, accepting a seat on another refugee's cot while the brothers kept crying. Seborga wept more names and Italy just rejected them one after the other, the two of them slowly sinking down until Italy was sitting on the cot where his brother had been laying.

The Micro-nation stayed wrapped up tight in the others' arms, cradled close against his chest. Ludwig watched Feliciano kiss him again and again with his scarred lips, touching his hair and his eyes and across both his cheeks. The brim of his cap kept Ludwig from seeing his face, but the tears still dripped from his chin and shone over his scars. When Seborga reached up like a child and touched the red marks crusting his brother's cheeks and brow, Ludwig's heart broke a little bit more.

"Your face... Your beautiful face..." Seborga's tears had slowed, still flowing freely but the sobs had left him, his expression dazed and sad as he brushed his fingertips where Ludwig couldn't see, and Italy tipped his head down as his brother mourned the scars. "Why...? Why did you do it? You used to smile..."

"The head should fall first." The Italian was complicated and soft-spoken, Ludwig could only roughly translate it, not really sure what he was listening to now. "I was the head of the Italian house, and I lost you..."

"We left..."

"I should have stopped you."

"You tried."

"Not hard enough..." They didn't argue beyond that, the Micro-nation just closed his green eyes and sank a bit further into Italy's embrace, his brother adjusting his hold so their foreheads were touching. Ludwig could barely hear them now, and he dropped his eyes to the dirt floor so he wasn't watching so closely.

"They... They're going to cut off my hand..." Seborga whispered the words and Ludwig was aware of Feliciano rocking his little brother gently, trying to keep them both calm. "Do you... you think I can still help..? Still work? It's just the left one..."

"The people need art," Italy whispered back, but he sounded very far away. "And the artists need a teacher. You know Papa's songs, and Lovino's dances, and Mario's star-charts-"

"But you can't see the stars..."

"You can here. I'll show you." Not right now though. Ludwig looked up and watched Italy place another kiss in his little brother's hair, his scarred hand stroking the teen's face as Seborga's eyes slipped shut. Italy lowered his head until his ear was down near his brother's mouth and nose, making sure he was still breathing as he fell asleep. When he straightened up again he kept rocking slowly, beginning to shake now as Ludwig stood up and crossed over to them.

He just watched Italy for a few more moments, listening to the fragile prayer he was whispering, his thumb hooked under a chain around his throat and a familiar old lump of black iron held against the palm of his hand. He'd rubbed the cross so much it had crumbled with use, just a hard black heart remaining, but Ludwig just took it as an sign of his faith.

"_Thank you... Thank you..."_

"You have to be careful now." Ludwig said softly, slowly lowering his hand and placing it on Italy's trembling shoulder. He could feel the half-formed sobs kicking in the Italian's chest, but his friend didn't turn to look at him. "You have to take care of him, you can't keep making yourself sick."

"_You brought him back... you brought one back..."_

"Feli..."

"_I understand-_" Italy's voice was hoarse, reminding him of England's charred throat, but he was choking on tears, not ash. "I understand that I kept Seborga at home, and that San Marino didn't go out much, and I know that nations were renouncing their faith. But the only ones who remembered Vati were Greece and Russia- _Orthodox_ nations, not even Catholic. I kept _waiting_ but..." But no one remembered...

Sitting down next to his friend, Ludwig kept his hand on Italy's shoulder, watching him curl his body around his sleeping brother. Somehow he knew that what Italy said next hadn't been shared with anyone else. And he understood why...

"Even my own people... My children... They took one look at me and thought we'd lost nothing- they just assumed that all of Italy was-"

"Your strength gave them hope-"

"_Ignorance is not hope...!_" The words were squeezed past clenched teeth, and he wouldn't look back at Ludwig. He was crying again, but not like before, one burnt hand forming a fist in front of him. "I didn't mean to burn my hands too, I just-" Wait.

"Italy..?"

"They would see the scars first and know something was wrong." Italy was whispering the words into his brother's hair more than he was saying them for Ludwig's benefit. "But then they'd see that I was standing tall, and my body was strong, and my mind was clear, and that would give them _real_ hope. They would know that they could survive _anything _because I'd survived _everything._" And that... was probably why there were so many Italians making up the camp...

"But your heart," he breathed, "your _face_..."

"Are not the same thing," Italy corrected, kissing Seborga's cheeks again and again. Ludwig scooted up the bed and brushed Italy's long hair away from his face, exposing the edge of the scars at the corner of his jaw. He placed one kiss on that spot, over that healed flesh, and when Italy untangled one of his hands from Seborga's side and reached to tug Ludwig closer to him, he obliged. He wrapped both arms around the two of them, Italy cradling his brother as close as he could, his head resting on Italy's shoulder, and Ludwig made sure to hold them together.

"This face can't, but..." But what? Ludwig set his head down on Italy's other shoulder, helping rock the other two, keeping all three of them close and calm. "But my heart is smiling, Germany..."

They were safe. They were together and they were safe in a place that had food, and clean water, and children, and medicine, and beds. There was paper for writing and brushes for painting, there were musical voices and expanding fields of green. This new world had flag-poles and town squares and sign posts. Their new world was missing a lot of things, but not love. They were not missing love.

"Mine too."

* * *

**I think it's done here. I'm wondering about adding something like the letter from the end of Gutters (probably from Italy's POV at last, or maybe from Seborga's) but I don't know. It'd be something really heart-warming though, like Seb telling Lovino that the first baby born in the New World was Italian and how Italy reacted when he found out.**


End file.
